Fingers of light pierced the clouds caressing the moors <br />with life giving warmth, purples, browns and greens of <br />heathers mingled, blended, in a union of beauty. Yellow <br />of gorse splashed in the sultry, hazy spectre of natures <br />superb canvas. The dry stone walling lay sporadic, lost, <br />decaying in time and memory, the hardy moorland sheep <br />stumbled from blade to blade, in the breeze they used the <br />walls as shade. Golden plovers dipped and dived the call <br />of pee weet pee weet echoed in the stillness, the Peregrine <br />hovered with silent wings and sunlit eye. Those fingers of <br />light walked the hillside highlighting the chalk outcrops <br />on craggy reaches as if new laden snow. Black pools of <br />peaty water dot themselves borne of winters starkness, <br />it is a beauty that holds both eye and heart, a picture <br />painted for the soul. A place where all blends and the <br />crofter wears no watch only the sun and moon to follow.<br /><br />Shakespeares Waste Bin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/peak-district-2/
